


A Roll of the Dice

by Ilye



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: One Shot Collection, Post-War of Wrath, Post-War of the Ring, Rivendell, the piped tags are a mess and I refuse to use them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:43:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6235564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilye/pseuds/Ilye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one-shots. See individual chapters for summaries.</p><p>Next: As the War of Wrath draws to an end, Maglor realises that he and Maedhros are the only ones left fighting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Haunted House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the Last Homely House's ghosts are benevolent. Glorfindel remembers them one more time as the Elves prepare to sail West.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [The Great Pumpkin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin), who responded to my storytelling dice challenge with Glorfindel/anyone.
> 
> I rolled: mouse, tree, wizard, troll, magic wand, haunted house, child and magic potion. A bit of liberty taken with equivalents and metaphors in places, but I think we got there in the end.

The Last Homely House held onto its ghosts. The corridors still echoed with the laughter of Elrond’s children; the slapping of their bare feet as they thundered after each other at play, and then older, deeper laughs as they swung from the ancient weeping willow over the Bruinen and leapt from it into the river during the balmy summertimes of their adolescences.

The valley bustled with activity – more than Glorfindel had known since the refugees came home from the Last Alliance millennia ago – but it was with a sad, tired finality, for the War of the Ring was over and Rivendell’s lord was leaving with his counsel. And, Glorfindel had come to learn through death and new life, there were some things you couldn’t take with you.

The ghosts would be hardest to leave behind. They always were – even after death and rebirth, Glorfindel would often find himself followed around the valley by the voices from his last life. Turgon was a common presence; he found the architecture of the place fascinating. Glorfindel was often privy to a stern critique when he least expected it, and as a result had spent Rivendell’s early years attempting not to have a conversation with himself as they built annexe after tower after hall.

Idril appeared when Arwen was born. She’d always wanted a sister, she said, as she peered into the cradle. Glorfindel bit his tongue to avoid pointing out that Arwen was, in fact, Idril’s great-granddaughter – but it did not stop him later from encouraging her along when he took Arwen to play; when quiet as a mouse he’d play hide-and-seek with her, and Idril would join in delightedly just like she had as a child.

There were others who appeared from time to time. Rog and Salgant enjoyed the regular feasts and the merry-making – no surprises there – and Tuor was often to be found listening in on conversations with visiting Dúnedain. There was just one person who was as unpredictable in death as he had been in life; one who was guaranteed to catch Glorfindel when his guard was down and elicit a retort before he could catch himself.

 _‘No wonder you won yourself such a reputation as a queer old Elf,_ ’ remarked a voice dryly from the corner of his mind.

Glorfindel snickered and opened his mouth to respond, but turned the words into a cough as he heard the familiar click of a magic staff on the stone of the terrace.

“You’ll see him soon enough. Save that conversation to have in person.”

Glorfindel glanced at Gandalf as the wizard leaned on the railings beside him, and quirked a speculation of a smile for, as usual, he’d seen right to the heart of Glorfindel’s fears.

“You seem very sure of yourself.”

“Call it an old man’s intuition.”

Glorfindel did laugh then. “You are nothing of the sort!” he snorted, for although the wizard was making a grand show of leaning on his staff and sucking his pipe like a wizened, weathered, time-worn Second-born, Glorfindel knew the immortal potency beneath. Gandalf looked up at him through the bush of one eyebrow.

“Perhaps not, but I am weary and I yearn for home. As, I think do you – and yet you hesitate.”

Glorfindel turned his face away from that canny gaze and surveyed the valley that had been home to him for so many centuries. She had been kind and welcoming, just like her lord – but, like her lord, she too was tired and her power waned.

“’Thel speaks to me here,” he said, and at the same time seeing in his mind’s eye that smile whose sarcasm had as much clout as a cave troll. “I hesitate because I don’t know if I _will_ have that conversation in person once I leave – whether, when I see him again, he will also see me.”

Gandalf let out a heavy breath, like a parent caught telling a white lie to a child. “Námo’s blindfold is unpredictable,” he admitted, and set a weather-worn hand on Glorfindel’s shoulder. “Perhaps you waver because you are not the same person he once knew.”

Glorfindel let out a low sound of agreement and Gandalf nodded.

 “Hmm. Give him time and he will see you again, just as you see me for who I really am. But if you don’t leave, you will never find out, will you?” He clapped Glorfindel on the shoulder and turned away from the valley’s Autumn facets spread before them. “Come on, Goldenflower, finish your packing and leave your ghosts behind. We’ve got a ship to catch.”


	2. Námo's hourglass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the War of Wrath draws to an end, Maglor realises that he and Maedhros are the only ones left fighting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [mandos-probation-offices](http://mandos-probation-offices.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, who requested: the elder brothers Feanor (mae & mags - other siblings optional) having a row. Any time in Arda, any sort of fight, verbal - physical, serious / joking whatever.
> 
> I rolled: skull, mermaid, cave, mask, hourglass, broomstick, dragon and black cat.

The world had changed beyond repair and recognition. Eärendil had chased Ancalagon from the skies, though he were to the wyrm like a gnat in size, and crushed Morgoth’s stronghold beneath its own servant. Ossë had sent his might inwards, together with his sirens and creatures of the deep, to break the mountains and recarve the shorelines and drown any foulness that lurked within. Maglor was under no illusions that, had the rising brooks discovered the cave where he and Maedhros now dwelt, they too would have been treated to a watery death like the Orcs that haunted the mountains.

Maglor had intuited the frisson that rilled through his brother when they learned that the cloud of smoke mushrooming to the North was, indeed, Thangorodrim smashed to rubble; aerosolised by the dragon’s huge weight at terminal velocity. Neither of them had been sorry to see it go. But it was now clear that it had signalled a different kind of ending to each of them

In Maedhros it had ignited some kind of flare, right at the bottom of his reserves.These days, his face seemed little more than a masked skull, painted with a hard, grim expression that rarely shifted. He was thinner than he'd ever been since he’d recovered from his torture. Maglor had no idea how he kept going except by the last dying burst of the furnace inside him that burned for revenge. For an end.

Maglor looked over to where his brother was coiled at the back of the cave they had found for shelter that night. Maedhros drew a deep breath and let it out on a sigh.

"I will not argue with you over this any more," he said, eyes still closed and without so much as a half-cocked ear in Maglor's direction.

Maglor felt the old bitterness well up inside him again. "We should have found a better place for them," he said quietly

Maedhros waved his stump dismissively. "You've convinced me," he drawled, unconvingingly. "I've changed my mind – go on, wander back into Gil-galad's camp and abduct them again, why don't you?" He cracked one eye open, just enough to catch Maglor's snarl of resentment, and slid his lips back over his teeth into a sharp, dark grin. 

"Well, then. What's done is done. Yes, perhaps we could have packed them off somewhere less war-torn, but they'd have been bored – and besides, the sudden re-appearance of Elwing's kidnapped sons in the High King's camp should provide a nice distraction, don't you think?"

Maglor huffed and folded his arms across his chest. "Thoroughly unscrupulous, you are. I should have known you'd find a way to make them useful. They're people, not pawns!" 

He knew his mistake as soon as he’d said it and braced himself for any of a number of rebukes.

_ Where was that attitude when I was bleeding in the Pit? _

_ Should’ve applied that one to Ulfang, shouldn’t you? _

_ That’s what Dior thought. _

But none came. Once upon a time, Maedhros wouldn’t have missed a chance for a snide remark. But ever since they’d felt the end of the war was nigh – he’d turned that heat inwards, as though using it to stoke his last reserves. Now, he just let out a sigh and turned both tired eyes on Maglor.

"All's fair in love and war, brother. You loved them; I’m apparently fighting a war on my own here. Now do stop harping on like some Second-born biddy with her broomstick and her black cat, will you? We’ve only a few hours until dark and I’d like to spend them in peace."

Maglor swallowed. He felt as though he might choke on the rancour seething inside him over sending the boys he’d loved as sons to their adversary. A yearning ache filled his chest and squashed his heart up into his throat, because even though Morgoth was vanquished, the war was not over – not for them, not yet, maybe not ever. And his blood ran hot and fast with the great, overwhelming resentment at whichever powers had wrought this whole injustice and warped his brother into a cold, hard general through blow after merciless blow. 

But he said nothing. He just nodded, and joined Maedhros at the back of the cave. And there, shoulders and knees just touching, they waited as the day faded to their final twilight and Námo's hourglass dribbled towards its end.


End file.
